


Flaws Upon Your Sleeve

by zjass06



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians & Related Fandoms - All Media Types, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Hurt Nico di Angelo, Light Angst, M/M, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 14:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20360326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zjass06/pseuds/zjass06
Summary: In a world where whatever mark appears on your soulmate also appears on you, Will had been so exhilarated to finally be able to catch the first glimpses of his own partner. He had no idea it could've ended up like this.





	Flaws Upon Your Sleeve

Will shamefully remembers that early winter morning as clear as day. The dull patter of rain against his window, the cool, biting air against his cheeks as he tugs his blankets higher. The sky grey and ignited with purple strikes of lightning; thunder roaring in his ears. The bright eyed, eight year old boy shivering in his bed — not just from the stark coldness.

He remembers slipping through the comforter; the sharp, crisp coolness of the floor against his bare feet, tiptoeing through the door into the dimly lit hallway. The way he rubbed his eyes to wipe away the dreariness, only to be met with a blunt sting. 

Remembers the appalled look on his parents' faces as his slides into their room, a plush teddy bear hanging limply in his grip. How they both rushed out of bed, his father kneeling before him as his warm fingers brushed against his cheekbone, his mother looking down at him, pale and stricken.

"I'm scared," eight year old Will had announced, jumping at yet another clap of thunder.

"Oh, honey," Naomi breathed, "Who did this to you?"

Will was confused and frightened, unsure to why Apollo looked at him with concern so evident in his features, his smile lines crinkling into ones of worry.

"What's your order?" Apollo asked heatedly, "Hello? Excuse me?—"

"—_What's your order?_"

"Huh?" Will says intelligently, deliriously seized back into present day reality, blinking the memory out of his vision.

"Your _order_," emphasises the girl behind the cash register, gesturing lazily to the overhanging menu above her head, "Y'know how to order, right?"

A crack of lightning beyond the window of the tiny coffee shop steals the snarky remark off his lips. Will isn't in the mood to be sassed today, especially not by some rude cashier with blindingly bright pink hair who chews her gum too loudly. All he wants is an inexpensive cup of coffee to kill his time with, just wants this day to slide past smoothly but even during the most simplest of tasks it's already made impossible.

Will tries his hardest to keep his expression from being bitter as he makes his order, but he finds himself a little bit pissed at the way the girl rolls her eyes, indiscreetly muttering "finally" under her breath.

When he hands over a five dollar bill, the cashier returns the change with an expecting glint. Will just scoffs though, shoving the change into his wet jackets' pocket — as _if_ he was going to tip her.

Once his drink is made, he takes it with a quick mumble of thanks and finds a seat at one of the empty, wooden tables. The weather outside must have brought everyone in, seeming as the small, single room is brimmed with with people with either wet hair or hoods and dreary faces to match the grey clouds. It's a doubtlessly depressing atmosphere, everything sluggish and slow and sloppy, and Will just sighs into his cup, reclining back in the creaky chair, hoping the storm will blow over soon.

Still, storms unnerve him. Each bolt of lightning charging a memory so vivid its as if it only just took place yesterday rather than many years ago. Even before the revelation, he'd always been scared of storms, always terrified by the torrential rain and the boom of thunder, only feeling safe in the presence of his parents. However, a different type of fear grasped him ever since his eighth birthday, shaken awake to a storm and dark blue blemishes pronounced against his cheek, rawly bloomed and bruised. He saw it first through his father's eyes, that were so filled with anguish and concern even after he realised that the bruise wasn't directly Will's, and rather his soulmate's instead. 

Will's thumb absentmindedly circles a spot on the underside of his wrist, tracing over the slightly risen strip of skin. The concealer fades away underneath his fingertip, revealing an old, red scar that stands harsh against his complexion. It matches the others running up his forearm. 

In a world where whatever mark appears on your soulmate also appears on you, Will had been so exhilarated to finally be able to catch the first glimpses of his own partner. He had no idea it could've ended up like this.

There's not a single moment that Will thinks about his soulmate and not be seized with grief. His soulmate, a person whom he'll love, hurting, bruising, scarring. And even after so many god damn years, every time a new mark makes itself visible against his skin he doesn't let it go without dread compressing against his lungs.

Will looks up at the people scattered around; there's a pair hand in hand; there's someone that wipes whipped cream of their soulmate's nose; there's a couple that leans into each other's solacing touch. They're all so picture perfect. The dream made into reality. What Will had hoped it would be like when he meets his own soulmate.

Yet the deep purple blemishes that paint his body as if it were a cheap canvas reminds him that not every soulmate comes paired with the fairytale fantasy.

And as he peers through the rolling fog and hazy street lights, it solely reminds him that he _will_ save his soulmate before it's too late. 

~*~

Most of the decisions Will made in his life are all put into the consideration of the vow he wordlessly made to his soulmate.

There's the small things that all contribute while he grew up, like how when he was ten he gave his sad classmate his ice lolly just to make him feel better or how he used to tell stupid jokes to make sure everyone had at least one laugh. Like how he voluntarily became his high school's student guidance councillor and did countless hours of melancholic research on how to tell if someone was being abused. 

The bigger decisions like how he was determined to become a doctor when he was older as soon as he found out the ugly truth behind his bruises. Wanting to be prepared to help his soulmate in as many ways as he can and heal him to the best of his abilities. To simply let them know that he's there for whoever the person is. That he truly cares for them in all means he's capable of.

Even now, during the tedious drag of Personal Finance (in which he should probably _actually_ be paying attention to) his mind keeps drifting to his soulmate, gaze flickering to his palm with a nagging notion. _It doesn't hurt to try_, Will rationalises, uncapping the pen he's failed to take notes with and scribbling a few words unmissable words down onto his hand.

It's a simple message: '_How are you?_' is all it says, and the response doesn't even need to be any longer than a single word.

And yes, Will's right, it doesn't hurt to try. But it does hurt to not ever receive a single response after nine years of trying.

~*~

It's not like Will had expected a reply by the time lunchtime comes around, but the thought of just being ignored is wounding. The dread of it shadows over him like _he's_ the guilty one, even though he _knows_ he's not, but the longer it lulls over him, the more he believes he's just not trying hard enough to save this person who's doubtlessly being abused. He hates the feeling, being powerless to stop anything, and even if (cause god fucking forbid) he did have some control over the situation, where would he even begin? What sort of soulmate is he? Could anyone be more useless than he is? Out there, somewhere, someone is being hurt, and Will despises how he can't just endure the pain for them.

It helps a little bit that Lou Ellen hovers by his side, rambling on about something that Will's too distracted to actually listen to, but the sound of her voice is comforting enough. Lou Ellen was always there for him, something normal and genuine and just a pleasure to be by. The sort of friend who balances out banter and patience perfectly, someone who knows his boundaries; respecting them.

Honestly, Will's so grateful for his friends it makes him pity his soulmate. Does he have someone to talk to? Someone he can trust? Someone to distract him from the pain? Does he have at least one friend that could lighten his day? If he does, the blond doesn't know, and with what he has now he can only hope for the best.

His gaze skims around the pavilion, hoping that his soulmate had a person to turn to just like everyone else does. _Even if it's not me_, Will thinks, slightly bitter.

"Whatcha got on your hand there?" Lou Ellen asks casually, the inscribed ink on his palm still very prominent.

Will glimpses at it for a split second, "Oh, it's nothing," he replies tightly, smudging the words into a black blur with his fingers.

Lou Ellen gives half a reassuring smile and lets it slide, instead taking another massive bite of her sandwich. Will's grateful for it.

Only beginning to dig into his own lunch, he lets his head clear out and tries to enjoy the rare sunshine the whole week had lacked so far, relishing in it's warmth and glow. It makes him feel a little better, rejuvenated in a sense.

Then there's someone that slides into the seat across his, and Will knows that this day is finally starting to see the better side of things.

"Hey Solace," greets the new presence, shamelessly stealing one of the fries from the blond's tray — not that he minds.

"Di Angelo," Will returns with a smile he can't hold back even if he'd tried, even considering Lou Ellen's knowing yet subtle nudge against his thigh.

Will may have a little bit of a big crush on Nico Di Angelo, and he partly loves it and partly hates it. Being attracted to someone other than your soulmate isn't unheard for, actually, it's quite common. In spite of this though, the blond can't help but feel a little bit guilty that his entire focus isn't fully given to finding his soulmate who breaks more and more as the days roll by. It's a culpability that's he can only blame as human error, because Will can't just switch off his feelings — no matter how much he longs to. 

Nico Di Angelo has always been something that sticks out in a crowd, though — like a diamond in the rough. Belonging while still being so uniquely himself. From the way his vague Italian accent hasn't washed away even after years of living in the US to how he manages to pull off a leather jacket no matter how hot the temperatures rise, he really is subtle kind of special.

However, Will brushes those thoughts aside, he promised himself long ago that he wouldn't be anything more than a mere friend to Nico Di Angelo, the whole soulmate situation complicating things more than the blond would like to admit. He really does try to devote all his effort into this person he's destined to be with, but there's some things that he just can't help, and he's ashamed of his emotional flaws.

"About that project from Brunner," Nico starts coolly, "Just wanted to know when you're free to get started."

Will shrugs nonchalantly, "Anytime is fine, really." He watches the Italian snatch another one of his abandoned fries as before he continues, "Where do you want to do it though? Library or your place--?”

Nico wrinkles his nose, "Library is too quiet and my place is difficult," he states blandly, "What about yours?"

"Yeah, that's fine, I guess. After school fine?"

The Italian slides out of the chair as he responds, tugging the lapels of his jacket a little tighter, "Cool with me. See you then, Solace."

The blond takes an absentminded swig of his drink as he watches Nico saunter back into the building.

Lou Ellen grins from aside him, "Feeling thirsty?"

Will nearly does a spit take in front of the entire pavilion at the words.

~*~

Things begin smoothly and Will (who initially had wary expectations for this little project) finds himself a grateful for the relaxed air between the two. Nico seems to have no problem with making himself right at home in Will's room and hums every now and then with a furrow in his brow whenever he's deep in concentration. The blond is actually pleasantly surprised with the way Nico stays on task throughout the majority of the time they spend on the assignment, and they work twice as fast than Will predicted.

The radio blurs on faintly in the background to fill the comfortable silence, and Will hates to admit how many times he glimpses over to Nico who lightly sways to the beat while scribbling something down on his notebook. He himself chews on the end of his own pen, frowning down at his divided set of question in a little bewilderment. How Nico seems to find English Lit so effortless, Will doesn't know, because all the analysis that he comes up with never seem to go beyond the basic terminology provided explicitly in the text.

Will doesn't say anything though; doesn't ask for help. He doesn't want to distract the Italian who seems absorbed into the things he scribes with a trace of a smile to his narrow lips.

"Solace, you're thinking too loudly," Nico voices out of the blue.

"Sorry," Will mumbles, "But I have no idea what I'm doing here."

The Italian mocks a disapproving tsk before reclining back on his chair, stretching his arms above his head, restricted by his black leather. "Hopeless."

He rolls his eyes at that, "Not everyone is a closeted English geek."

"I think both of us know that you're the nerdy one, Solace."

"Says the guy who's been analysing a single chapter for four hours straight."

It's as if the words trigger something unbeknownst to cast over Nico, melting away his smile in an instant, replacing boyish curvature to the corner of his lips with a quiver instead. "Four hours?" he asks with hesitant disbelief. The artificial glow of his battered phone screen pools against his face in a light that Will's never seen it before, catching harshly on the shallow shadows underneath his eyes as if he hadn't slept in days, a sickly sort pale about his skin. His pupils stare dead at the screen, the reflection in them almost glassy, before Will's seized with a burning curiosity. The blond longs to ask what's wrong, to ask if he's okay, but something gives him a hint that he won't reply no matter how much he tries to ask in the moment.

When Nico's dark eyes flicker to his with an undoubtable dread poorly hidden behind them, he smiles with no meaning as he gushes out a poor goodbye.

Before Will knows it, there's a subtle slam against his door hinges and Nico is just gone.

~*~

It catches him unaware, with a sensation unlike any he's ever felt before. It's not painful, but it still feels like it presses against his skin, so much so he finds himself awakened at 3am.

His room is bleary and lightless, and Will'sdazed and confused but there's definitely nothing there. Regardless, his hand still finds it's way to his throat, pawing for something abnormal but all he's met with is the same old feel of his skin, only it stings minutely at the contact.

Will knows that sting all too well, and he's already thrown the sheets over the bed as he hazily races his way to the bathroom, the feather light compression only getting tighter.

The cruel brightness of the white light burns against his dreary eyes, but he forces them to adjust anyways. It's nothing in comparison to what he's met with through his reflection. The ever-darkening contours of fingers coiling around one's neck.

His soulmate's neck.

Being strangled.

Will chokes as though he could feel it, though there's not deliberate cut off of air from his lungs. It's suffocating for an entirely different reason. Struggling to breathe though there's no real constriction around his windpipe. Everything fades as if he were the one dying. Knuckles gripping bone white against the sink as if prays for him to be okay.

Will cries as he watches it play out before him, someone else's suffering etched into his own neck. Will cries at the evident finger marks growing bluer by every precious second. Will cries because he knows he can't do anything about it.

Then, for a terrifying moment, everything is ceased. There's no slight pressure tightening against his throat nor are the marks evidently blackening before his eyes.

What he mistakes as relief makes his heart drop like stone into his stomach in uttermost fear. The ugliest of truths flooding his mind.

_What if he's...._

Will doesn't dare make a sound, maybe if he's quiet enough, he'd be able to hear a pulse other than his own.

But then there's an itch against the underside of his wrist, and Will doesn't dare to turn it over. Doesn't have the stability to handle it.

But when he looks, he chokes on a sob and sinks to the ground.

'_Help_' it says against his wrist, bold in black ink.

His heart soars in reassurance, pounding furiously against his ribs.

Will scrawls down his response wasting no time. Hoping. Praying.

The blond waits there all night, but when no words are returned by the time dawn breaks, Will buries his face in his hands.

He failed.

~*~

Will gets through the school day soullessly. An unshakeable feeling of being detached from himself, like a severed connection between his happiness and his heart. There's no joy in anything. Not in Lou Ellen's droning voice. Not in the sunshine that basks too heatedly upon him. Not in anything.

Subconsciously, he tugs the collar of his navy turtle neck higher despite the sweat he can feel accumulate on his nape. He had ignored the way Lou Ellen eyed him, wordlessly questioning his choice of a woollen jumper in the midst of a summer's day. Will's still fine with it, though, favouring the insufferable heat the clothing brings rather than the onslaught of question that the marks on his skin are sure to accompany.

Will wonders how those who are actually being hurt get away with hiding their flaws like this. It's scary how they're not being questioned. How they manage to slip away from notice in spite of the way they stick out in the crowd — like a diamond in the rough.

"Hey, Solace," greets a gravelly voice, and that's when it all comes collapsing down on him.

Will's gaze whips up to meet Nico's, more analysing than it's ever been before. No marks taint his neck but the blond won't be convinced this time. Refuses to be ignorant any longer.

He doesn't even think about it as he swiftly stands from his seat, seizing Nico lightly around his wrist and dragging him away from the pavilion.

"Solace? What the hell are you doing?" Nico asks heatedly, and Will can feel tears burn against his eyes at the way his voice croaks. The sound of it alone drowns out the rapid fire questions, and Will hopes and hopes that he isn't right about this.

"Let go of me!" Nico exclaims, ferociously yanking his arm out of Will's grip but the blond doesn't fight it.

The blond doesn't realise his mistake until Nico looks up at him as though he were a timid cat. Eyes brimmed with an evident terror as he's pressed against the locker. Hyperventilating as he anticipates him for the worse.

"Oh god," Will breathes, stepping away immediately to give the boy some needed space, "Oh god, Nico, I'm not gonna— you shouldn't be scared of me."

His gulp is slow and agonising to watch, "I— I don't know what you're talking about," he claims in a way that Will supposes is meant to reflect some sort of dominance, but it comes out soft and hesitant. Pleading.

Will's research hasn't prepared him for this moment. Will's medical abilities don't come in helpful at all. All that pushes him are the scars that scream underneath the concealer. The bruises that bellow beneath his clothes.

With a calming breath, Will rolls up his sleeve, exposing the seemingly bare skin underneath. He watches Nico's face closely, which in spite of his trepidation, screws up in perplexity. 

"I don't... What is this about?" Nico asks uncertainly, a quiver to his tone.

Will sighs first, then with his thumb, he rubs away at the make up shadowing the strip of risen skin against his wrist. Revealing slowly at a old, red scar that stands harsh against his complexion.

Once again, Will scans Nico's expression. It's twisted in denial.

"No," the Italian utters, "No, no, why are you showing me this?"

Will finally musters up the courage to say it, "Does it look familiar to you?"

"No. No it doesn't. Will I don't know what you're playing at here but— it's _sick_, Will. This isn't a joke and I don't know what you're talking about..."

The tremble in his voice wounds him, it really does, but it still tells Will exactly what he needs to know.

Without a word, the blond tugs a pen out of his pocket, uncapping it to trace unmissable words onto the back of his hand. The dark gaze watching like a hawk.

There's a tear running down Nico's cheek as he holds it up himself, shaking but willingly.

His hand held in the air, the words, '_How are you?_' taunt against his pale skin.

"It's okay, Nico," Will soothes the best he can, "It's going to be okay from now on."

However, he doesn't reply, not verbally at least. He only peers up at him through crystal eyes, his hesitant fingers reaching out, tugging down the collar of Will's turtle neck to reveal what laid beneath.

"I'm so sorry," Nico says distantly, "I'm so sorry for doing this to you."

Will _hates_ it, hates the apology more than he's ever hated anything in his life. Hates it more than the response he never used to receive. Hates it more than being seemingly powerless. Will repulses the mere thought of Nico blaming himself, and before he can think better of it, he grasps Nico tightly against his chest, arms curling protectively around his fragile body.

"Don't you _dare_ apologise, Nico," Will whispers with a searing passion, "Don't you dare."

When the Italian remains tense for a few long moments, it's only then Will realises his mistake. He shouldn't be pushing physical affection onto him so rapidly, not after what he's been through. Almost immediately, he slackens he grip to pull away — however, Nico doesn't allow it. Instead, he instantaneously coils his arms against Will's back, long fingers gripping at his jumper so tightly that it threatens to tear at the seams. But he couldn't care less, not when his soulmate's face was buried into the groove of his neck, shaking with tears that stain his shirt.

"Nothing is going to hurt you anymore, Nico. I won't let it."

"You can't promise that," the Italian says against him, "You don't know what he's capable of."

Will pretends to be unstirred just for Nico, playing reverently with the inky hair that teases the nape of his neck.

"We'll figure it out," Will vows, "It will only get better from here."


End file.
